


So Comes Snow after Fire

by Morgause1



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Blasphemy, Blood, D/s, Death, Dom/sub, F/M, Gore, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Madness, Masochism, Melkor has Lord issues, Psychic Bond, Religious Guilt, Self-Harm, Self-Sacrifice, Sex, Silmarils, Smut, Some unexpected cuddling, Spiritual, Torture, Vala/maia, Violence, angbang, suppressed emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 05:30:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10483140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgause1/pseuds/Morgause1
Summary: After Lúthien and Beren steal one of the Silmarils from Melkor’s iron crown, Melkor loses it completely. It’s not nice. It’s terrible and horrifying but, hopefully, with some glint of light. Please mind the warnings. O Eru, I’m so sorry.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set after http://archiveofourown.org/works/8867761/chapters/20331802, and has a big wink wink, nudge nudge towards Lairenuriel’s “Of Use”. O Lairenuriel, I’m so sorry.

From the Dawn of his existence, Melkor craved light. He loved his Lord passionately, and with vigor did he seek the Flame Imperishable, His soul and essence of creation. And was not imitation the most fundamental and pure act of worship, the desire to mold your own self in the likeness of that which you hold sublime? So Melkor thought, and in his then-innocence he could not understand why he had been pushed away again and again, why he was shamed and abhorred. And when he was finally Disowned by his Lord and cast off howling from His sight to dwell in misery and alone, it had been too late. Melkor’s love soured into greed and a lust to destroy what could not be his. Anger and darkness were just a pace away, and cruelty and destruction followed fast.

The Silmarils were infused with Divine Light. It was dim and remote, of course, as it was channeled by his siblings into this imperfect world and imprisoned in Matter by an unclean hand. But it still recalled the light that emanated from Him, the same light he desired so much before adoration turned to defiance and his Soul Bond became a throbbing nightmare. The same pain haunted him now: the Silmarils burned his hands when he reached for them, just as He had, and stabbed his eyes like white-hot skewers if he dared stare at them for too long, seeking answers to long forgotten questions. Melkor hungered for light, but light hated him.

Some light was different, though. Mairon’s was warm, diffused, a fiery glow that enhanced Melkor’s darkness instead of negating it. The fire spirit loved him to the brink of madness, devoted himself to his cause completely. And when he held the naked and ecstatic Maia in his lap, spark-shooting hair streaming like molten copper down his back and eyes half-lidded with abject pleasure, Melkor could almost taste again a flicker of the Presence in his soul.

But then that, too, was gone.

 

Mairon lay cradled on the Vala’s chest, fingers idly tracing the line of his neck and jaw. His hair was spread over Melkor like a blanket, silky and warm. It had been over four years since he’d given Mairon leave to storm Tol Sirion and take the Elven tower to dwell in as his vassal, ensuring Melkor’s control of the Vale of Sirion. As usual, he was doing remarkably well. Melkor was as proud of him as could be, although the Maia’s absence from his side was somewhat unfortunate at times.

“Well, Mairon, are you enjoying my gift?”

The Maia lifted his face to grace him with a brilliant smile. “Oh, very much, my Lord. The keep is spectacular, and there is so much to do! Now that the fortification is completed, my hold on the land is growing ever stronger. My Orcs and Werewolves venture further out with each passing Moon, and the damnable wretches that still cower nearby are afraid to speak your name out loud, whispering in terror of your might and glory.”

“Mine, or yours?” he bit the Maia’s ear, and he laughed.

“Yours. I make sure to keep this one fact clear: you are the King of Arda, my Lord, and I but your servant. Everything I do is in your name.”

“How touching.”

“It’s true.”

“I know. And you seem to be happy.” 

“I am. Although… I do miss you terribly.” Mairon’s fingers had been wandering freely as he spoke, ending up sneaking into Melkor’s hair. Now he rubbed his face in it, breathing deep and mewling with delight. Melkor felt the Maia’s pulse quicken– he always did love his hair.

“Come to visit more often, then, if you are in so much anguish. I’d hate to see my best Maia suffer needlessly.” Melkor’s tone was light, but clearly mocking. The Maia, otherwise so proud and imperious, never did hide how much he needed his Vala: how foolish of him to leave his heart so open and vulnerable! But, then again, how could he hide anything from the one who owned his soul so completely?

Mairon didn’t seem to mind. “I wish I could. Perhaps one day, when the entire Middle-Earth is under your power and all our enemies bow before you. Well,” He smirked. “Those who won’t be crushed to dust first, of course.”

“I’m sure you could manage something, if you tried hard enough.” He rolled over the Maia, pinning his wrists down on either side of his head.

The Maia laughed his beautiful, honeyed laugh, and arched his back to grind his hardening loins against his master. His breath caught and his eyes darkened with lust again as the contact sent little darts through his body. He licked his lips and his sharp teeth glinted in the firelight. “Alas, I must leave tomorrow as Thuringwethil is not yet ready to take the entire load upon herself. But I will come back as soon as I may, perhaps even for a few months?”

“Do that,” the Vala smirked and bent down to kiss him.

 

He waited for the Maia, unconsciously counting the days until his next visit. Years came and went in lightless Angband and the reports Melkor received from Tol-in-Gaurhoth promised that a reunion was close at hand. But the Maia never returned.

 

“Fled? He **fled**?!”

The Orc messenger knew he was doomed from the moment the job of informing the Vala of his Lieutenant’s disgrace was thrust upon him by his sneering commander. Now he knelt as low as he could, covered his head with his arms and hoped his death might be quick. He risked a quick glance up.

Melkor’s face was contorted in a black fury. The loss of the keep was a dreadful blow and a major setback for his plans. His mind was still trying to wrap itself around Mairon’s treachery… the very idea was utterly inconceivable. He shifted on the throne as a scream started to rise inside him, tightening his chest and making his head hurt under the weight of the crown: something deeper lurked underneath the justified, lordly indignation. His heart sank as he felt again Eru’s rejection, which he buried deep inside him so long ago, twist in his gut like a knife. The Maia was his. He was supposed to come back to him, like he promised. How **dare** he deny his master what belonged to him?! A panic seemed to grow around him: the throne hall was noisy, maddening, the frenzy hitting his ears in pulses which overlapped with the sickening flashes of the Jewels. The Maiar huddled together by the far wall in a cloud of limbs and fiery horns, murmuring and whimpering when their master’s frustration crushed upon them like a mountain: cold and hard as iron. The Orcs and other fell beasts were already used to the Vala’s rage fits, which became much worse during the years of the Lieutenant’s absence – no one else seemed to be able to balance him. Perceiving that one of those fits was imminent, they fought each other to get away, to flee the hall before it was too late. Some of them were already lying trampled on the floor. Melkor grabbed the trembling messenger by the throat, and watched with cold satisfaction as life slowly left his hideous carcass. It felt good. Orc was meat, and meat was unimportant. The doors of the throne hall slammed shut as he turned his predatory gaze to the rest of the hall’s occupants.

 

When his favorite Maia finally **did** come crawling back, wounded and ashamed and begging for him, he sent him off into the mines like the least of hateful slaves. That was about a year ago. To trap him for so long deep in the bowels of the Earth, cut off from his Vala, was cruel. Melkor pushed aside an unwanted wave of agitation which arose in his chest and bade his time. So preoccupied was he with these thoughts that at first he didn’t notice the other Maia entering the hall to stand before the throne, leading a large wolf in her wake. But when he did notice her, it was as if nothing else existed in the entire Arda.


	2. Chapter 2

Iron always loved Mairon. In the past, the Maia would melt it down in a great fire and coax it into intricate shapes. But here, in the uttermost darkness at the roots of Angband, where only the most expandable slaves dwelt and air was gulped in desperate gasps, no fire could burn. But no great fire was necessary this time: a simple breaking spell, uttered in a tongue that was not of this Earth, was sufficient. As always, the iron was happy to oblige.

It was not so hard to escape even the deepest and most guarded of mining tunnels when you were the one who planned them and overseen their delving. The Maia flitted from shadow to shadow, bare feet making no sound on the rough stone floor. He was still too weak to shape shift, but it wouldn’t have helped him anyway: he might have been able to fool the simple Orc or Troll, but these tunnels were guarded by more than just Orcs, and Maiar were seldom deceived by raiment. It mattered not. His cunning and skill were superior to them all, and he knew it.

In short, none of the means to keep Mairon as a slave in Angband’s mines could do so. The only thing that held him in place was the knowledge that his Lord wanted him there, punished for his failure and abused by creatures far lesser than him. Mairon would have stayed there for all eternity, if it were the Lord’s will, but for a rumor that came into his ears, soft as snow and just as smothering.

“The Silmaril,” whispered the voices, and “a Maia’s spawn,” thick with derision for one of their kind who bred with an Incarnate. The abomination came into the fortress, sickly sweet and dripping foul magic, and it dared lay hand upon him who is holiest. And my Lord? Mairon asked, anxiety gnawing his bones, but the whispers fled around the corner and were lost. But he needed not really ask, as he could feel the storm whirl in his soul where his master burned, comprised of pain, and shame, and madness. Mairon bore it until he could take no more. Obedience was a virtue, true, its opposite unthinkable. But now his service required more than just blindly following orders, even if it means risking the Vala’s displeasure. He had to go to him. He had to set this right.

 

As he neared the throne hall, the turmoil in his mind grew ever louder, accompanied by a tremor in the ground. He did not encounter any opposition on the way. In any other time he would have been angered by the guards’ lack of watchfulness, but now he perceived the sense of emergency and started running, praying in his heart that he is not too late. He rounded the corner and stopped abruptly. The great iron doors of the hall were shut tight. A single Maiarin guard was leaning on them, pale and clutching his head in agony. The Orcish guards had long ago fled. There was a wave of noise coming from behind the doors. Upon hearing it, Mairon – the sorcerer, the Ainu who heard the primeval screech of the Earth as it was first wrenched from swirling Nothing – staggered. Yes, there were bestial bellows of tormented creatures driven to madness by pain and terror in that noise, but that was nothing he had not heard (and caused) before. What made Mairon’s blood ran cold was the complete silence of the Vala’s wrath. The walls shook with it. Soot and plaster were falling off the ceilings, followed by larger stones. The whole corridor seemed about to collapse. Mairon made a move to open the doors, but the Maia put out his arm to stop him.

“Let me in!”

“Master said… you’re not welcome.” The other Maia managed to whisper before losing consciousness. Mairon kicked him aside and leaned his whole weight against the doors.

The vision inside the hall made even Angband’s chief torturer wince.

Power swirled and slashed in waves across the room, freezing and unbearable. It stank, it hurt, it violated the soul and drove the mind to madness, while still denying the mercy of oblivion. None could withstand it: the stone floor was bathed in blood. Forms huddled in the filth – gory hands and claws slowly ripped pieces off each other, tearing out their own eyes or intestines, boxing their ears to keep out the silent scream – the Incarnate servants who were caught inside the hall when the Vala snapped. Some were still shrieking, others just moaning or sobbing. They could not stop, caught within the deadly vice of insane Will commanding them to suffer. And in the midst of the carnage, flinty and unmoving upon his lofty throne, sat the Vala. He was dark, darker than the Outer Void, and just as cold. In his cloven iron crown, only two Silmarils remained.

Mairon was chilled to the bone. Fighting against every fána-imbued instinct screaming for him to flee, he veiled his face against the stench and smoke and steeled himself for the oncoming task. He began wading his way through the soup of mangled meat and waste. He pushed away the still-living hands that tried to grab him – to hurt him? For help? Mairon couldn’t tell. A wave of malice hit him hard and he fell, landing on a soft mound of matted fur. The hollow eyes of his wolves gazed up from where they lay dying, begging him. Their fast, pained gasps would have broken his heart before, but now he couldn’t care less. His Vala needed him. He climbed back up to his feet and slowly, painfully, managed to cross the hall. Covered in blood and reeling with sickness, Mairon fell to his knees before the throne.

“My Lord…”

Melkor’s pale blue eyes were completely black now, blind and dead. Mairon had never seen him this way, even when Eä was young and Melkor was the black hole that annihilated entire galaxies. Panic drove Mairon to madness: he crawled nearer until he was at the Vala’s knees and took his hand in both his own.

“My Lord, please. Listen to me.”

The black eyes turned to him slowly. Mairon flinched under that dreadful gaze, but held on. When the Vala finally spoke, his voice held the low thrumming of an exploding star.

“You.”

“Master,” he spoke urgently. “Please stop. Your fortress is falling apart.”

“You.” Melkor repeated, his voice gaining in volume. A red spark was kindled deep inside the wells his eyes had become. “This is all your doing. You let that bitch go when you should have killed her, and now look at what she’d done. It’s all because of you.”

Mairon shook his head abruptly. Oh no. oh no. there must be a way to fix this.

“My Lord, let me go after her. I’ll bring back the stone, and her head, too.”

“After all you’ve done? You dare disregard my every command, flee punishment to appear before me when I will not have you, and now you even make demands?! Truly, I did not think you so stupid.” He rose suddenly, tossing Mairon to the foot of the raised dais. He hulked over him, fists clenched, mortifying Will coiling and lashing like a whip. The threat was so thick it could almost be touched, sharp and deadly as ice. Mairon could not avert his eyes from the Vala’s torn face.

“This is but a minor regression, barely of any significance if I may update our tactics. You would still prevail. If you allow me, I would…” he was babbling. It was shameful, but he couldn’t stop.

“Did you even hear what I said, Maia? Or are you too far gone to understand that you are facing punishment?”

“Please,” he managed to squeeze between his teeth, heart pounding so loudly in his throat that he could barely hear himself. “Punish me as you would, Master. I won’t ask for mercy, I know I don’t deserve any. Just, please… I cannot bear to see you in pain. It’s not right, it’s…” his gaze was overflowing with longing that twirled like smoke in his brilliant eyes, piled up during the last frustrating years. His hand hesitantly reached for the Vala, but he kicked it away, his face thunderous.

“Do not pity me!”

“I don’t pity you. Pity is for beasts, not for the King of Arda. All I want is to set this right. Isn’t that what I’m for, Master?”

“Oh yes, my dutiful servant, so humble and valiant.” Melkor began pacing to and fro on the dais. “Of course you want to go after the Jewel. You can’t wait to run away from me again, can you? Not this time, though. This time you remain here.”

“If you won’t let me go after her myself, at least allow me to send your strongest Maiar and wolves. They would succeed where I failed…”

“ **I said** **no**!” the Vala roared suddenly. Mairon shuddered in pain. The creatures moaned louder as the wave of devastation shocked the hall. Disaster hung heavy in the air, crystalizing breath and cooling off the puddles of warm blood. Melkor turned his back on Mairon. He seemed to be taking a few deep, stabilizing breaths. His next words were spoken in a more level tone.

“Your cowardice has cost me too much already. There is nothing you could say to convince me otherwise. You are a disgrace, Mairon, a traitor and a failure. Perhaps I should Disown you and be done with it.” For one terrible moment he seemed about to proclaim those most dreadful words, severing their Soul Bond and casting Mairon away forever – a pain too terrible for any Maia to bear. Mairon’s sight blackened. But even in his madness, Melkor wavered. Encouraged by this minute sign, Mairon rubbed his hands over his eyes and strove to find his voice again.

“Master,” he said, soft but determined. “I know that I have failed you and failed you again, and I am so, so sorry. But wasn’t my work satisfactory in the past? Wasn’t I useful? All I ask, all I beg of you is to let me serve you one more time and to amend what I’ve broken. Just allow me this one last grace for all the eons I followed you faithfully. Please, Master. Just that.”

“I don’t want you, and I don’t need you.” Melkor whispered. Mairon made a move to touch the hem of his robe, but froze when he realized that it was not Melkor’s voice speaking.

He heard that voice before, a long time ago, and yet he never did. The strange voice, so familiar, continued speaking out of Melkor’s mouth. ”I have others who are loyal to me, and they would take everything you were meant to have. Your brother will take your place in my heart – **shut up**!” he screamed with his own voice over his shoulder, as though in pain, seemingly to the servants. The cries and moans all died out at once. A heavy silence fell on the hall. All that could be heard was water dripping from the ceiling and Mairon’s strained panting. What brother? What was he saying? Then realization dawned on Mairon, as horrifying as any true daylight. It was so much worse than he thought. He racked his brain furiously. A different technique was in order. He paused when he reached a conclusion. This one might very well be the end of him. But if this is what his beloved master needed from him to be well again...

“Then I will punish myself for you,” he finally managed to rasp out. The Vala huffed, but he continued. “Really. What do you want me to do? Beat myself? Skin myself? Jump bleeding into the Dragons’ pit? I’ll do it. I’ll do anything you command, however terrible.”

There was something in his voice, dark and desperate and truthful. Melkor sat back in the throne and regarded him, contemplating how the firelight fell on his now gaunt limbs. “Very well,” he said. “So be it.” He leaned closer to him now, eyes drilling into his.

“You should have stayed in the mines where you’d be safe, Mairon. You chose to leave them and come here… whatever happens now is your own fault.”

Mairon didn’t answer, nor did he move from his bowed position.

“Well?” asked Melkor. “Aren’t you going to beg for mercy?”

Mairon shook his head.

“You don’t want to remind me again of your so excellent service? No? Then I tell you this, Maia: you will indeed be punished, and you are going to do it to yourself. You will leave the sheltering warmth and fires of this fortress where you hide. You will climb the highest peak and the deepest glacier. There you will dig a grave in the ice, and you will seal yourself naked inside it. The abominable cold that you cannot tolerate will destroy you and extinguish your fire.” he looked deeply into the Maia’s terrified eyes as he spoke. “And when your fána dies, then your naked spirit will understand fully how I scorn you, your cowardice and treachery. Nothing will remain of you but a shadow, flitting in the frozen wastes, wailing miserably at my windows for warmth and love. For even then I will not allow you to come back in.” the Maia clamped his hands over his mouth to stop himself from screaming. Distaste filled Melkor’s heart and he uttered: “Go.”

Mairon rose trembling up to his feet and walked slowly towards the doors, head cast low and arms wrapped around his torso. Resting his hand on the door, he turned and whispered. “I love you.”

“Out.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that canon-wise, Thuringwethil should be dead by now. But I prefer to think she was just wounded during the fight between Sauron and Huan, and managed to crawl back to Angband to be cared for by her Vala.

Seven days and seven nights passed in dark Angband. Shadows danced on the great iron throne, mixing awkwardly with the faint illumination coming from a small, rosary skylight. The Orcs and other minions were banished from the cleaned hall, their racket and smell forgotten. Only Thuringwethil remained. She was curled up at the Dark One’s feet, leathery wings folded around her. His hand was embedded deep in her hair. A stranger might think that he was caressing her, but any Maia that was lucky enough to win the Master’s favor could tell the truth, had themselves felt the terrible talons digging into their flesh and soul: the pain was but a small price to pay for the addictive pleasure of the god’s attention. Blood dripped down her protruding spine. The Vampire watched the Vala, her insectile eyes glazed. A long, pale tongue flicked out of her mouth, licking his boot.

Melkor recalled the occasions when it was Mairon kneeling beside him like that, a willing sacrifice on his altar. His spirit sung hymns to the Vala then, an endless fire of changing hues and forms: clever, exciting, full of so much potential. It was invigorating, its devotion utterly beautiful. And when the Maia’s hot body pressed itself to his, lustful and seeking, seeking, until his hands and lips found what they wanted and…

Thuringwethil made a gurgling noise in her throat as the Vala’s claws plunged deeper into her soft skull with a sudden twitch. The bright haze of the memory focused again into a cool present which was absolutely boring. Melkor gave the Maia a shove with his foot and she scuttled away on her barbed wing joints, pale breasts gleaming in the gloom and the tops of her thighs wet.

Seven days and seven nights. Mairon should be dead by now.

 

A long train of thick, black velvet rustled on the ice at the peak of Thangorodrim, barely audible above the howling of the wind. The ice melted beneath it, immediately hardening again into shards sharper than knives. It snowed last night, but the bloodstained little tunic, cast aside and forgotten, was still visible. So was the misery which hung in the frosty air. The Vala crouched beside the tunic and smiled. Yes. He knew he won’t fail him again.

The grave was deep and narrow. Mairon’s body, when he dug it out, was frozen hard. His skin was purple, his bent fingers torn and bloody from digging in the rock-hard ice, a few of his fingernails missing. There were patches of ice on his cheeks and in his still beautiful, open eyes. Melkor wondered if they were tears. Slow death by cold, alone and heartbroken. No wonder the fire spirit wept.

He laid the body on his knees, reaching into it with his soul. For a long time there was nothing, but Melkor was patient. And then something **caught**.

It began as a tremor, almost subtle enough to miss. Melkor wrapped his black cloak about the body, pressing it to himself, allowing the cells of the Maia’s body to return to life, one by one. After what might have been hours, the Maia sighed and his eyelids closed. Melkor lifted him in his arms and carried him inside, to his own rooms. He laid Mairon carefully in the burning fireplace and sat down on the rug beside it, caressing him through the flames.

The Maia sighed again, and then opened his eyes to bare slits. “Is my pain really not enough for you, Master? Must I truly return to do more?”

“No,” Melkor answered softly. “No more pain for you. You’ve proven yourself loyal and brave, and I welcome you back.”

Mairon’s hand shook when he tried to lift it, but he soon managed extend it out of the fire and touch Melkor, who took it in his and rubbed his thumb slowly across the Maia’s knuckles. He was gaining warmth. Good.

“Rest.”

The Maia nodded and closed his eyes again. Melkor returned his hand into the fire, making sure it was properly engulfed. He sat there, looking at Mairon, while the flames whispered and crackled. He was breathing easier now and his cheeks, while still pale, lost their morbid hollowness. As the tension slowly left Mairon’s face, Melkor allowed himself a deep breath. The years **had** been long and frustrating. But now Mairon was back and the stupefying noise in Melkor’s head was lessening. Now both of them could finally rest.

“My Lord?”

“Yes, Mairon.”

“What’s going to happen now?”

“You go back to your role as my Lieutenant. That is if…” he suddenly stopped as if biting his tongue, and then finished lamely. “That’s it. Your punishment is over.”

Mairon scrutinized him from amidst the flames, a skeptical look on his face. He lifted himself on shaking elbows and crawled out of the fireplace to kneel before the sitting Vala. Melkor caught him in his arms when he wobbled, bringing him closer. After a few tries, the Maia managed to press his forehead to his.

“Never-mind what happens or what you do to me, I will always love you. Even if you…” his voice wavered for a moment, but he regained control of it. “Even if you Disown me, even if you reject me and cast me out, I would still be yours and would still do everything I can to ensure your victory. I swore an oath and I plan to keep it, and more besides.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” something about that proclamation and the earnestness with which it was spoken made Melkor very uncomfortable.

“It doesn’t.” the Maia answered, after a moment of silence. “I just wanted to say this.”

He wondered briefly how much the Maia guessed. Melkor was good at protecting himself, but Mairon was always shrewd. He looked at the Maia who gazed deep into his eyes with worship, the power of which could crush kingdoms. That was no good.

“Your affection runs too deep, Mairon. Far deeper than what’s befitting a Maia. And you are much too open about it. It’s dangerous for you to love too much.”

“I’m strong enough to take it.”

“No, you are not.” Perhaps no one was.

The Maia wisely held his tongue, then his strength left him and he collapsed. Melkor picked him up and carried him onto the bed, covering him with a blanket and lying down beside him. Mairon grasped a lock of the Vala’s long hair between his fingers, as he was wont to do every time Melkor let him share his bed. Perhaps he should let him do that more often from now on.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to get the Jewel back?”

“I am sure. Now sleep.”

And as Mairon drifted into a heavy, dreamless sleep, he thought he heard the Vala whisper.

“Perhaps it would have been better if the mongrel managed to take all three.”


End file.
